DTR

The signal crashed our heroes against waves of naked police. We happened to exude aspecific calenders into endless rubber information. To be pluralizing gems striated and shot through with meteoric waters. Into facts that screamed out stars, we pricked the silence inside any random assassination. A crunching rock tonality, penetrating the refrigerator of every possible stipend, and there, in light frozen by time’s Eros: endless sheaves of rotten music, forming into bullets, cars… forming into the assassin of moments. Who then has shadows moving. Against. Any instant where presence once was sheltered. Against the glint the infant brings to its third breath. When the police had the tools that had them have those heroes. Dead. To. Rights.